


Trouble in Paradise

by charmtion



Series: Querencia [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, F/M, Mild Kink, Professor Snow's Magic Tongue, Sexual Tension, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23934715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: “You want me to tell you off, don’t you?” Throws her in his shadow now. She blinks up at him. Splay-legged on the bench still. Hips rocking against her seat. “Bend you over. Inch up that pretty dress. Bit by bit.” Sinks to his knees. Very slowly. “That what you want, Miss Stark?”Jon is the life and soul of the party — and the holder of a certain small, black remote. Sansa is busy trying not to fall apart in her seat. Vibrating panties. Love-bites. Book launch. Red dress. Academics beingnosy. Baelish gettingburned. Champagne kisses (and a fumble) in the cloakroom. Let’s go!
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Querencia [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1556566
Comments: 34
Kudos: 102





	Trouble in Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> > It’s my birthday this Saturday so… HERE’S SOME SMUTTY SEXUAL TENSION IN [V. EARLY] CELEBRATION OF IT! 💃🎈  
>   
> (a gift to myself and to any of you lovely people who might enjoy a brief dip back into the _Querencia_ universe; no need to have read any of it before this, tho — it ain’t that deep 😘)
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 

He’s tried to ignore her all night. _Tried_. But he’s failing. Miserably. Because it’s impossible to ignore her at any time on any day of any week. But tonight — Jesus fuck — _tonight_ it’s somehow even harder to ignore her. Still, he’s trying to. Back to the other party-goers. Glass in his hand. Ear bent to an earnest conversation with a fellow academic. But it’s useless. Absolutely _useless_.

Even when his back is turned he can hear her. That smoky chuckle that sends shivers down his spine. Polite murmur in conversation; hint of strength behind the softness of her voice. Jesus. Taking all his will-power not to fall down at her feet just from the _sound_ of her. Runs a finger under his shirt-collar. Frowning as he nods at some inane point being circulated in the little circle gathered round him.

Tries to fight the urge to glance over his shoulder. _Tries_. But he fails. Miserably. Head turning before he can stop it. Glass half-raised to his lips as if he’s casually scanning the hall. Nothing casual about the tightness in his throat. The fire flaring white-hot at the centre of his chest. The sparks of heat flying up and down his spine. Settling at his nape, his cock. Jesus _fuck_. Ready to drop to his knees at the mere _sight_ of her. Mouth is watering. Actually fucking _watering_.

Red. That’s all he sees. Red silk wrapping every curve of her. Red nails nipping at a champagne-glass. Red lips settled in a polite little smile. Red hair swept up to show the creamy skin of her neck. Red mark just beneath her ear. Mm, _his_ mark just beneath her ear. Rose-patterned porcelain. Jesus fuck. Takes a gulp of champagne, tries to tamp down the heat rising in his blood. _Tries_. Fails. Miserably.

*

Been listening to this man prattle on for the best part of an hour. She’s bored. Dangerously bored. Keeps clinking his wedding ring against his glass. Like she’s interested. Like _she’s_ the one staring hungrily. Polite. That’s all she’s been. But she can feel it wearing thin now; can feel a tendril of impatience souring the sweet, little smile she’s hefting. Muscles tightening in her back. Takes a deep, shuddering breath. Just about ready to tell him to politely _shut the fuck up_ — when a hand brushes between her shoulder-blades.

Relaxes. Instantly. Knows its weight, its heat. Rasp of a palm. Fingers flexing gently. Tips digging into her skin. Just a little. Bit of bite; he knows she _loves_ that. Doesn’t turn. Needs to concentrate on swallowing the reedy sound ebbing up her throat as he brushes a kiss to her cheek. Leaves her skin red-hot as her silky dress. Hand skating down to settle on the small of her back now.

“Professor Snow.” Gold-band clinking on that fucking glass again. “Congratulations on the book. Delightful evening.” Dips his head toward her now; soft lights catching on the silver streak in his hair. “Delightful company, too.”

Fingers flexing on her back. “Thank you, Dr Baelish.” Hand flattening out. Skin on fire beneath the heat of his palm. “Delightful, indeed. You’ve been the envy of the hall hanging onto Miss Stark all night.” Polite enough tone; but she catches a hint of something else behind it. Makes her smirk. “Filled her head with your socio-economic theories, I should imagine.”

“He has,” she says evenly. “Chaos and control working hand-in-hand to prop a country’s commerce… something like that.” Presses back a little now. Enjoys the hiss of breath as her backside arches into his suit-trousers. Mm — finds him hard. “Absolutely _fascinating_ theory about ladders, too. I’ll be sure to explain it in detail to you later.”

Dr Baelish watches them politely even as he works his jaw. “How did you two meet?”

“I sat in on a lecture or two whilst researching my masters.” Wishes he would just _fuck off_ now. Tendril of impatience being burnt up by something _far_ more potent. “Did a bit of work for him on the side. Marking. Teaching. That sort of thing.”

“Like a TA,” says Baelish. “How _delightful_.” Smirk on his cheeks as he lifts his champagne-glass toward his lips. “And now?”

“Now I’m at NYU,” she says sweetly. “Working as part of an interdisciplinary team on the psychosomatic experience conveyed in the poetry of twentieth-century frontline soldiers.” Chokes. He fucking _chokes_ on his mouthful of champagne. All she can do not to burst out laughing. “Is it mainly ladders you work on, Dr Baelish?”

Mumbles something about needing to find a handkerchief. Moves off. She takes a sip of champagne. Smiles to herself. Tilts into the mouth working heat just beneath her ear. Rolls her hips just slightly. Panties pulsing. Literally fucking _pulsing_. Another hiss of breath between his teeth. Kiss turning to a fleeting bite as he sucks back from her throat. Whiskey-warm voice sending shivers down her spine as he slips up to her ear.

“Outside,” breathes it. “ _Now_.”

*

Sways out onto the balcony in front of him. Presses her belly to the balustrade as she fumbles in her clutch-bag. Tries to resist the urge to press himself flush against her. _Tries_. But he’s failing. Miserably. Soon as the doors to the hall shut behind them he’s bulling toward her. Trapping her up against the balustrade. Chest to her back. Hand running down the bare length of her arm. Teeth nipping at her throat as he finds her fingers atop the stone-support; rasps a thumb across her knuckles. Hand on his nape. Fingers pulling at his bun even as she tilts her neck. Opens up for his mouth.

“I _told_ you no biting,” she hisses. “Been dodging questions about those bruises all night.”

He presses a kiss to one ruby-bright bruise. “How was I to know you’d wear _that_ dress?”

“You don’t like it?”

Moans into her neck as she shifts her hips. “Sansa, you _know_ I like it. More than like it.” Rolling now; already hard enough to fucking burst. “Mm, _fuck_ — I like it so much that any promises I made about biting and bruises quickly became redundant.”

“Is that right?”

Says it so sweetly. Like she’s not working him to high heaven. “That’s right.” He circles her wrist. Other hand finding her hip. Steadying her even as she dips her arse a little more firmly back against him. Groans now. “Bad girl. You’re making me want to turn around and head for home.”

“Turn _me_ around?”

“Miss _Stark_.”

“Yes, Professor Snow?”

Forces himself to take a step back. She glances over her shoulder. Smirking. He scowls. Knows his eyes are blown-wide. Black. Full of smoke and heat and hunger. No point even _trying_ to hide it. She’d see right through it anyway. Red. All he can think, see, _feel_. Red. Red. _Red_. Dress. Nails. Hair. Rubies on her throat. Red-soled heels as she leans forward slightly. Sheer stockings. Line running from the top of her shoes up the centre of her calves. Disappearing beneath the silky swell of her skirt. Imagines it travelling up behind her knees. Her thighs. Her panties. Knows what fucking colour they are.

 _Red_.

She turns now. Pretty as a dancer. Flowy crimson skirts catching up the city breeze. Gooseflesh on her bare arms. Nipples pebbled through the silk. Raises a brow at him, smirk widening. Lips pursing round a cigarette as she lights up. He steps into the smoke. Chokes himself on the last few threads of it as he kisses her. Tobacco on her tongue. Champagne, too. Drinks it up greedily. Drowns on it.

“Mm,” hums it against his lips. “Haven’t you got a speech to make?”

Fingers digging into her hips. “ _Shit_.”

Doesn’t say anything. Just bites her lip as he draws back. Smirk still there. Reaches a hand up to cup his cheek. Thumb dragging across his bottom lip. Comes away with a smear of her lipstick on it. Red. Smirk widens at that. Brushes past him as she steps back toward the doors. He groans. Shuts his eyes. Bites his knuckles. Takes a deep, shuddering breath. Tries to collect his thoughts. _Tries_. Desperately.

*

Like a god in the half-light of the lecture slides. Carved of marble, obsidian, bronze when the soft chandelier-light catches him just _so_. She wonders — not for the first time — what look he’d give to the crowd if she was knelt behind that lecture-podium. Mm, on her knees, wide-eyed looking up at him. Her the sinner. Him the stony altar. Her mouth the little candle she’d lean forward and offer him in penitence. Wet lips. Soft tongue. Wrapping him up. Making him choke on his words — 

Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_. Catches hold of her own thoughts. Realises she’s gazing up at him open-mouthed as everyone nods earnestly around her. Draws her lips tight together. Shifts in her seat. Winces as her thighs rub together, ache deepens between her legs. Pulsing, still. Fucking _pulsing_. Crosses them. Foot bobbing daintily dangling from her knee. Pleat of red silk demurely rearranged as she smooths her flowy skirt.

Knots her fingers together. Looks up at him earnestly now. Head tilted to one side as if she’s taking notes. Concentrating hard. She _is_ concentrating hard. Not on his words. No. On keeping grip of her rapidly-unravelling self-control. Frantically trying to re-knot the frayed threads. Band them up together. Keeps nodding. Line between her eyebrows. Little quirk of interest. Finger tapped to her chin as if she hasn’t sat patiently through a thousand rehearsals of this fucking speech. Wish he’d hurry up and finish so they can go _home_.

“Of course, _Trouble in Paradise: Finding Comedy in Shakespearian Tragedy_ wouldn’t be half the book it is without the team that rallied behind it.”

Easy, even, completely self-assured; his voice sends shivers across her red-hot skin.

“I am grateful to several kind benefactors and institutions for funding my research-leave. My agent, too. My anonymous reviewers — and my _not_ -so-anonymous reviewer.” He’s looking into the crowd now: right at _her_. “A special thank you to Miss Sansa Stark who found the time to proofread a thousand drafts — all whilst working on her own, truly ground-breaking stuff at NYU.”

Raised glasses. Scattered applause.

“And thank you all for coming out tonight. It really has been a _delightful_ evening.”

Needs to come. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_. Needs to come so _badly_. Red heat of that battling with the syrupy warm glow his words have set in her heart. Both whizzing round her body. Sparring in her veins. Flushing between her thighs. Stands bolt up-right suddenly. Everyone staring at her. Red silk dress hugging every curve. Lips parted. Fire in her cheeks. Lifts her hands. Starts clapping. Energetically. They copy her. Sound of applause rising to muffle the moan that’s tangling on her tongue. Thank _God_.

Eyes finding his up on the lecture-podium. Wordlessly begging. Tiny, the shake of his head he gives. But he’s smiling. Fucking _bastard_ is smiling sweet as anything. She watches as he dips a hand into his pocket. Fishes out a small, black object. Presses down on it. Eyes smoke-dark on her own as the pulsing abruptly stops between her legs. Fucking _prick_. Seething as she fights not to collapse in a heap on the floor. Fingers digging into the chair in front of her. Takes a deep, shuddering breath. Looks back up: wide-eyed, shaking her head. He just smiles sweetly. Presses down on the remote again. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_ -ing _prick_.

*

Mm, she is _furious_. Watches her stalk from the seats. Swoop over to the drinks table, pick up another flute of champagne. Toss it back. Walk off without acknowledging whatever it is that Dr Baelish is saying. Slips off down a corridor. Leaves a swathe of greying academics gawping after her swaying hips. He collects his notes. Taps them square on the lecture-podium. Puts the remote back in his pocket as he leaves the stage.

Brushes aside the thanks and congratulations offered up by his peers. Dips his head at them as he discreetly leaves the hall. Follows the click of red-soled heels on the marble floor. Echo up. Distant. Feels like a wolf stalking a scent. Red-hot in his mouth. The taste of it — of _her_. Licks his lips. Quickens his stride. Bolts through the door she’s left crashing back on its hinges. Finds her in a cloakroom. Splay-legged on a bench. Head pushed back amongst half a hundred winter coats.

“Don’t you _dare_ take them off.”

Her fingers falter midway up her dress. “I can’t wear them anymore, Jon.” Huffs it; blackened lashes flaring at him. “They’re driving me crazy.” Skirt lapping round her waist now. Red silk against her stomach. Flash of red between her thighs. “ _You’re_ driving me fucking crazy.” Fingers hooked under the ribbons of her panties. “I’m going to take them off… and you can’t stop me.”

“Showing off,” he murmurs. “That what you’re doing?” Lets his voice creep out dark and slow as smoke. Fights a smile as she bites her lip; all her fury gone. “You’ve made all those dry old whitebeards sweat into their sleeves out there. Now you’re talking back to me. You bad girl.” Tilts his head. Takes a step toward her. “You bad, _bad_ girl.”

Fingers trailing back down her thighs now. “ _Your_ bad girl.”

“You want me to tell you off, don’t you?” Throws her in his shadow now. She blinks up at him. Splay-legged on the bench still. Hips rocking against her seat. “Bend you over. Inch up that pretty dress. Bit by bit.” Sinks to his knees. Very slowly. “That what you want?”

Shuddery breath. “I want you inside me.”

“I want that, too,” breathes it against her skin. “Very, _very_ much.” Presses a kiss to her stockinged knee. Glances up at her. “But you’ll have to wait till we get home.”

“ _No_.” Whines now. “No. _Jon_ — ”

“Quiet.”

She sags back into the coats. Whimpering. He runs his palms up the insides of her thighs. Slides them further apart. Red-soled heels planted either side of him, rocking up to tiptoes on the marble floor as he bends toward the flash of red. Lays his lips to it. Gently. _Very_ gently. Feels pulsing: the panties, her fucking _heartbeat_ beneath the thin red silk. One hand in his pocket again. Fishing out the small, black remote. Slides his thumb in a circle. Pulsing increases. Faint hum filling the air. Vibrations. Mm — and the small, strangled moans she’s making low in her throat. Turns it back down. Presses his mouth to her covered mound; slow roll of his tongue against the thin red silk now.

“ _Jon_.” Red-soled heels skittering across the marble. “Jon. I _can’t_ — ”

“Can’t what, Miss Stark?”

“I can’t _wait_ ,” she moans. “I need to come. _Now_ , Jon. Right _now_.”

“You can wait…” trails his tongue softly. “… till we get home, baby.”

Thighs trembling. But he’s faster than she is. Draws back just as she slams her legs together. Denies her trapping his head _right_ where she wants it. Plants his hands either side of her hips on the bench. Levers himself up till their faces are level. She’s breathing hard. Fire-bruises in her cheeks. Red-painted lips falling wide as he kisses her. Slow. Soft. Sweet. Snip of sting as he draws back, teeth denting her bottom lip.

His hands busy at her waist. Smoothing the ribbon-strings riding her hips. Settling the silky red skirt back into place. Looks into her eyes. Smiles as she nods.

“I’ll keep them on,” breathes it. “You utter prick.”

Breathless, smoky chuckle at that. “Good girl.” Noses at her cheek. Breathes in the sweet scent of her skin. “We should get back.” Rests his brow to hers. “They’ll think there’s trouble in paradise.”

“There _is_.” Hits his shoulder. Pulls him close. “I’m in _hell_.” Nips at his lip. “And it’s all _your_ doing, Professor Snow.” Shudders against him as he whispers his fingertips down her sides. “But I’ll be a good girl. I’ll _wait_.”

Tries to resist the urge to kiss her again before they traipse back out into the hall. _Tries_. But he fails. Miserably. Still wiping lipstick off his mouth as she sways out in front of him. Red-soled heels marching in time with the beat of his fucking heart. Jesus _fuck_. Red. All he can think, see, _feel_. Red. Red.

 _Red_.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know if anyone even still remembers this universe/series/passionate obsession that so consumed my world all winter but here they are back again hot as ever: Prof Snow and (soon-to-be) Dr Stark. I missed them, man! This has been in my drafts forever and I finally whisked the dust off it. Hope somebody has enjoyed it! I did originally have a second chapter planned to follow this up… we shall see what happens — atm I am having too much fun writing a post-canon piece with Cersei as the weird wine-aunt of Winterfell (courtesy of that excellent tumblr post ofc) so am a bit distracted. Anyway, thanks for reading (assuming someone has lol) throwing all the love and light to you! ❤️


End file.
